


Regarding the Mosh Pit

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Regarding Twitter (SFW) [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Concert, Drabble, Established Relationship, Keith starts a mosh pit to avoid being arrested, M/M, Sweet, mosh pit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: At a concert, Lance finds out that Keith can be a maniac (maaaaaniac) on the floor.Part of a series of edited/updated threads from Twitter.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Regarding Twitter (SFW) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744792
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	Regarding the Mosh Pit

**Author's Note:**

> "Regarding Twitter" is a series of my favourite threads updated, lightly edited, and tagged. All original versions are available on my account [here](https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1199399029395709952) (warning: NSFW account). Length and tone varies as Twitter is where I tend to play and explore.

The first time Lance sees Keith lose it at a concert he nearly gets clocked in the face.

It’s an early show, doors at seven with a double header. The opener had been a DJ playing what the flyer called “retrosynth vaporwave,” which had ended up being mostly ominous, whining keyboards over basslines pitched for optimal vibration. It hadn’t really been Lance’s bag, but Keith had idly bobbed his head as their sweating beers had left little lumpy circles in the sticky top of their table, so he’d gone along easily with the thumping and squealing.

(He’s weak for the rare moments when Keith lets himself enjoy things. He makes him coffee with a hint of cinnamon on mornings, even though he has to douse his own with hazelnut cream to stand it, just to watch Keith take that smiling, eyelid-fluttering inhale before his first sip. He buys fabric softener that kind of ruins his own clothes, because Keith buys cheap and rugged. The stuff Lance uses is so strong it leaves a residue on his t-shirts that smells like his abuela, but Keith has once asked him for “no, not _that_ shirt, the one you made all comfy” and Lance had never bought another brand.)

So when the first headliner takes the stage, a mishmash of beards and unkempt hair and effects pedals, Lance’s face doesn’t quite know what to do with itself. Because Keith grabs his wrist and drags him from their table to the front, nudging past other people until they’re right up against the stage. And yeah, it had been Keith’s idea to come, so Lance had been expecting him to enjoy himself, but every other concert has seen them swaying gently at the back and hitting the merch table during the encore.

This time, Keith turns to him with a wide smile and shouts something like, “I fucking love this song!” over the opening guitar riff. And sure, he’d mentioned the fact that he’d been a fan of the band for a while, but it’s just so Keith for him to hold back _how big_ a fan until the music starts, and Lance, for the first time, doesn’t dance. He stands dumbly, guitar shredding in his ears, people starting to press in from the sides, and stares as Keith _does_.

He _dances_.

Well, kind of. He dances the way one does to muddy rock being blasted a foot away. He lets his head sway on loose shoulders, swings his weight from left to right, does these little head bangs when the riff gets nasty, and Lance is transfixed.

Lance is like whoa.

Lance _cannot even_.

When Keith notices him standing there, so unlike himself in his stillness, he quirks an eyebrow at him and mouths along to the lyrics and lazily throws down the horns with the hand still holding his damp, half-empty beer, and Lance loses it.

Technically, he does yell Keith’s name, but it’s too loud to hear, and it doesn’t matter, anyway. In the next second, Lance is grabbing him by the waist and planting a kiss on his face (he misses his lips; by, like, a lot) and jumping in a way that has the remainder of his beer foaming in the bottle.

And he...maybe gets a little too excited.

He just can’t _help it_. It’s such a rare phenomenon, seeing Keith like this. Blue and red lights carve patterns in his hair, and he finally puts that mullet to good use as he lets it fly to the beat, and he does this little _thing_ every now and again, where he pulls his arms back in and glances around as if worried his good time is taking up too much space or getting too noticeable, and it’s so cute Lance can hardly swallow.

For his part, Lance does not worry that his good time is taking up too much space.

He dances the way he always does. He dances with his entire body, right down to his eyebrows, which raise and lower in time. He _reaches_ (“flails,” Keith usually calls it), he _swivels_ (“corkscrews in two directions at once”), he _backs that shit up_ (does “that...that butt quirk...thing...?”). And if it’s a little over-zealous, well, who can blame him, with Keith right up against his side like that, loving life the way Lance loves him?

He doesn’t notice the guy beside him say, “Hey, watch it!” but he certainly feels the way he lands a shove on his back. Lance stumbles, catches himself half against the stage and half against Keith, most of his beer (foam) slopping over his front. He’s a lover, not a fighter, so he’s already halfway through a good-natured, “Sorry, man!” when he notices that the guy isn’t done. He looks pissed, the kind of drunk pissed that isn’t going to listen to reason, and he’s just resigning himself to the fact that his good time is going to get him a black eye (for, admittedly, not the first time in his life) when Keith is there.

And for another split second, Lance thinks ‘Goddammit,’ because he’s sure Keith is about to get them kicked out (for, admittedly, not the first time in his life), but then.

Then.

Keith grins wicked and wide. Lance can only see the edge of it in a flash of red strobe. Then his head is thrown back and he’s yelling loud enough to be heard over the music, “ _Mosh pit_!” and throwing his entire body onto the dude like a howler monkey.

And it’s _pandemonium_. There are a bunch of individuals in one moment and a writhing mass of body parts in the next. Lance is almost immediately shoved to the periphery. The band keeps playing and he loses Keith in a wall of skinny jeans and damp cotton.

It takes a few minutes to find him again. He’s birthed from the throng on the other side of the crowd, squeezing out between an acid wash vest and a curtain of blonde hair, and Lance nearly misses that fingerless glove waving at him over the sea of heads.

When they make it back to each other, Keith’s hair is a disaster and there’s a thin smear of blood across his cheek. Lance doesn’t have to ask to know it’s not his. “You okay?” Keith asks, and Lance barks a laugh. Is _he_ okay? He swipes the blood from Keith’s cheek and shows it to him as an answer. Keith’s grin isn’t particularly warm (but it does get Lance kind of hot). “He shouldn’t have touched you.”

Well hell if _that_ doesn’t make Lance want to be _too much_ and start some trouble again.

They finish out the show instead, and buy merch that’s a size too big because it’s all they had left, and kiss softly under the harsh neon tube lights bent into the word “MUSIC” on the ceiling at the front of the venue.

“A mosh pit,” Lance will sigh, years later, “I can’t believe you started a mosh pit for me.”

“Romantic, right?” Keith will laugh, and his teasing smile will turn embarrassed and affectionate when Lance replies, beaming:

“Yeah. It so was.”


End file.
